The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures) (8 page)

It’s true,
Bert thought.
She was beautiful.
He was suddenly aware that his head had listed to one side as he beheld her painted image. He blinked hard and stood straight.

The artist was skilled, that was certain; far better than the amateur who had infuriated his mother a few years back and was banished from the barony under the threat of torture. The Witch-Queen sat on a simple, armless chair. She held a cluster of leafy branches in her hands, and across her lap were the dried stems, leaves, berries, and roots of a variety of plants. At her side was a bench cluttered with potted plants and watering cans. Behind her was a garden in full bloom. Bert peered at the lovely face, eye-high with his own. The complexion was fair, the features fine. Her auburn hair was tied back with a ribbon and adorned with a simple coronet. Her thin, red lips were turned up in a smile, a warm and cheery smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“Not exactly the portrait of evil,” Aunt Elaine said.

“No,” Bert replied. In fact, this looked like someone you’d want to have for a friend, as long as you weren’t daunted by her beauty. “But artists do that,” Bert said.

“They lie with paint. They make you look better than you do in real life. They leave out the warts and the scars. They can leave out evil, just the same.”

“Is that so?” Aunt Elaine said. “Then why did he paint her like this?” She pointed toward the Witch-Queen’s hands. Bert leaned in close, and his eyebrows rose. The hands were dirty. The nails were unpainted, and dirt was caked underneath. “Why …?” he said.

Aunt Elaine went back to the paintings and withdrew the largest frame from the stack. “The same man painted this, just two years later.”

Bert’s brow furrowed. It was the same woman. But transformed somehow. She was on her throne now—the very seat where her portrait was now propped. But the empty notches on the chair were filled with glittering gems. Her posture was rigid and formal. There were no dirty hands this time—long, perfect, ruby-red nails gripped the arms of the throne like the talons of a bird of prey. All the warmth was gone from her features. There was a smile on her red lips, but devoid of happiness. The cold stare in her eye made Bert shiver. No, this painter left nothing out. The Witch-Queen was evil, the artist perceived it, and his brush told the truth.

“What … happened to her?”

“Nobody knows. Rohesia was a healer, Bert, not a murderess—at least not until the last years of her life. True, she’d always taken pride in her beauty. Look at her—who wouldn’t be proud of that face, that form?
But until the end there was something more important in her life. She spent her days learning how to treat the ill and the infirm with herbs and compounds. The gardens of The Crags were filled with the plants she grew for their medicinal qualities. And her shelves were filled with extracts from bark and berry and root and leaf, each with their own power to cure. She drew her knowledge from ancient books and from the poor but wise folk who lived in these lands. She was even a friend to the Dwergh. She reached out to them because she knew there were healers among them, and she wanted to share knowledge that might benefit both of our peoples. In return for the secrets to their medicines, she allowed Dwergh parties to come and mine our lands.

“That is the Rohesia that everyone has forgotten: the kind ruler, the person who only wanted to heal. It was only in her final years that she became the hateful Witch-Queen, jealous of anyone whose beauty approached her own. But now the murderess is all that anyone can recall. I had to search long and hard, and talk to the very oldest people in these parts, to learn about the good queen. You see, Bert, in the end, the evil you’ve done is always remembered more vividly than the good.”

Bert lifted the first painting out and set it in front of the other. He looked again at the long sprigs of unknown plants that Rohesia held in her lap.
Rohesia the healer.
No, nobody ever talked about that at Ambercrest.

“I’ve wondered for years what drove her mad,” Aunt
Elaine said. “I believe her mind might have been poisoned by one of the exotic plants that she cultivated What else could explain it?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Bert said, looking into the tenderly painted eyes. It was as good a guess as any.

“Still … the rumors about her are so strange. Everything I learned was passed down through generations, so I’m not certain how much to believe. Especially the tales of her dark magic. They say that Rohesia could bewitch men, crush their will and turn them into mindless slaves who would do her bidding no matter how grim or wicked the task. They say that she kept horrible beasts for pets, misshapened things that were only glimpsed from afar, because anyone who saw them close up perished under their teeth and claws. They say she would lock herself in her room for days—the very room where you’re staying now, Bert. The servants would wonder if she needed help, and they would knock on the door, but there would be no answer and not a sound from within—as if she had vanished like a ghost. Whether those things are true, I do not know. But it can’t be denied that many folk who defied her met grisly fates. Or that she went mad with jealousy and tried to kill her own stepdaughter, Snow White.”

In the silence that followed, Bert looked again at the friendly, lovely face in the first painting. He took a deep, long breath. “Still,” he said, “at least she gathered all that knowledge …”

“That’s the saddest part,” Aunt Elaine said. She brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. Bert noticed dirt under her fingernails. “Most of the wisdom she collected was somehow lost. Only a few of her notes remain. I would give anything to find the rest, Bert. Anything.”

CHAPTER 10

B
ert was almost out of parchment, and his hand was cramped, but there was so much more to tell his brother. He clenched and unclenched his fingers to ease the soreness, and then went on writing.

As soon as I got back to my room, I closed the door and went behind the rose tapestry. You can probably guess what happened next. The candlestick was like a key! When I turned it the right way, all three snake tails stuck to the three spots on the wall, just like those old bits of lodestone we used to play with. I pushed, and all three tails sank into the wall. Then I heard sounds, like chains moving behind the wall, and part of the wall swung inward, just like a door. It was amazing! The stones opened farther and farther, and when they finally stopped, there was an opening big enough to get through.

I know you think nothing scares me, but I have to admit that I was afraid to go through that doorway. Do you know what I finally did? I pretended
you were right behind me, just like always. I lit a candle and went through. I was worried someone might come in and learn the secret. But even if they did, they probably wouldn’t find it. The tapestry covered the whole thing, and as far as anyone knows, it’s a solid wall back there!

It was dark and cold inside, and there was a strange smell. My hand shook so hard I was afraid I would drop my candle.

Do you know that I wasn’t even in the castle anymore? Once I passed through that wall, I was in the cliffs behind The Crags. Everything around me was carved right out of rock! It was so dark. It was as if the blackness was hungry, and it ate the light from my candle. There was a short landing at the top of the opening, and then stairs. They went down a long way—I could not see the bottom from where I was.

You should have seen what I saw. Even though it was blacker than coal, there were little bits of flat, glassy stuff in the rock, and they caught the light of my candle. It looked as if thousands of stars twinkled all around me. I call it the “Tunnel of Stars.” I went down the steps, and they kept going and going. There was a room at the bottom. Or it might have been a cave. It was hard to tell what was natural and what was carved from the stone. Just imagine—long ago someone tunneled all the way to
that cave. I wonder if you even believe me as you read this, but it is true. I wish you could come, so I could show you.

Someone used this place as a hideaway. You know who that must have been! To think that I sleep in her room, and now I’ve found her hidden chamber. I did not see any witchy stuff down there. Perhaps Father is right, and she was not a witch at all. There was hardly anything in the cave. Just a chair and some lamps she must have used to light the place.

Bert stopped writing. There was something else down there, of course. But for some reason he hesitated to include it in the letter. Why? He shook his head and chided himself. What secrets could he keep from his twin? They knew everything about each other. They always had. Of course he’d write about it.

There was also a mirror at the very end of the chamber. It is filthy, but I may try to clean it. There is a table next to the mirror, with some combs that look like they are made of bone. I almost expected to see the Witch-Queen’s ghost sitting there, looking at herself in that mirror and brushing her hair!

I am almost out of parchment now, and it is late, so I think I will end this letter. Uncle Hugh said I should give him any notes I want to send, and he
will give them to the courier. But I do not trust him. I think he would read the letter himself first!

I do miss you, and I think about you always. Sometimes I get the feeling that you are thinking about me. I wonder if you get the same feeling. Good-bye for now, Brother, and be brave. Remember that everything I have written is a secret. Hide this letter, or better yet burn it, and tell no one.

Bert signed the letter and set the last page beside the others to dry, considering what he had written about the mirror. And what he had not written.

He had not written that a magnificent chair was arranged in front of the mirror, so that a person could sit and gaze directly at his reflection. And he had not written that this chair, with its wide seat and soaring back and brawny arms, was more majestic than Father’s throne or Uncle Hugh’s unimpressive seat.

He hadn’t written that the mirror was breathtaking and certainly priceless. Its frame looked as if it was made of solid gold, inlaid with silver so pure and white that it seemed to glow. He hadn’t written that the silver was in the shape of symbols—some form of writing that was exotic and unfamiliar.

Nor had he written that when he used his sleeve to rub at the dusty glass, the reflection in that clean patch was amazing in its clarity. It was nothing like the
polished sheets of silver or brass that served for mirrors at Ambercrest, sadly distorting the face of anyone who looked into them. He wasn’t certain, but it may have been the kind of mirror that Mother always talked about. Those mirrors came from someplace far away, and they were made with a special kind of glass and a secret process, jealously guarded. They were so rare and priceless that the only person in the kingdom who had one was the king himself.

When the ink was dry, Bert gathered the pages together. He stood and hesitated. Suddenly he had an urge—almost overwhelming—to tear the letter into pieces and let the candle consume the scraps one by one.

But why would I do anything like that?
he wondered, shaking his head and blinking hard. Of course he’d share this secret with his brother. Not everything, perhaps. After all these years of being side by side for every experience, there was something wonderful about having part of it, even a small part, to himself. Will could learn the rest in time.

Bert rolled the pages and tied a ribbon around them. He dribbled wax from the candle across the ribbon. Then he pressed his iron ring onto the wax, leaving an impression of the family crest. There was nothing sacred or official about this seal, but perhaps Uncle Hugh would think twice before breaking it to read the letter, if he managed to intercept it.

Hugh Charmaigne. How satisfying it was to have
discovered this secret, right under his pig nose. Uncle Hugh had watched Bert’s every move with cold suspicion, looking for an excuse to banish him to his room. Bert laughed at the thought.
Go ahead and punish me! There’s no place I’d rather be.

For now, he had to figure out how to get the letter directly to the courier. If his father sent Parley, that would solve the problem. Parley could be trusted. He hid the letter under his bed and left the room. He was anxious to see if a courier had arrived.

He was eager, too, for night to come and the others to sleep. Because when they did, he would unlock the hidden door again, go down through the Tunnel of Stars, and wash the mirror.

CHAPTER 11